


lonely water

by colourexplosion



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Resurrection, The Returned AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 13:33:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8403574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colourexplosion/pseuds/colourexplosion
Summary: Harry comes back on a Wednesday, on a full moon, on a cold night in October six years after he’s died.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hello happy halloween! 
> 
> this is based on the show the returned, which is creepy and sad so I hope this is also kind of creepy and sad (but also happy!!!) thanks to kate and saskia for looking this over, my babes!! none of it is true or real and please don't show it to anyone!!
> 
> thanks and enjoy!!

Harry comes back on a Wednesday, on a full moon, on a cold night in October six years after he’s died. 

It’s not the anniversary or anything, because Louis figures that’d be too much for Harry, as fucking dramatic as he is. Was. Is. God, whatever. 

Regardless, Louis hears the door open and slam shut in such a familiar way that his spine tingles, his fingers clenching reflexively around his phone. Heavy footsteps make his heart pound, and he’s on his feet before he can really think about what he’s actually going to do. He hasn’t got a weapon and he hasn’t got any real talents besides speed, so he could definitely probably outrun someone, but he’s planting his feet like he’s actually going to fight, and that’s stupid, isn’t it? 

Of course, any coherent thought he had dissolves the moment Harry steps around the corner. Harry. _Harry_. Looking exactly the same as the day his stupid ancient Mercedes went careening over the cliff edge, with his stupid headband and his aviators and the grey shirt that Louis always loved best because it was soft and thin and held his scent better than any other. 

“Louis,” Harry says, and Louis’ stomach heaves violently at the sound of his voice. “You won’t believe the day I’ve had.” 

— 

Apparently, Harry doesn’t remember. He remembers going for a drive and waking up in the trees, the fucking forest beneath the cliffs, and he climbed up to the road and walked home. Walked to Louis’. He’s got no idea it’s been six years and he hasn’t noticed that Louis’ changed, and he hasn’t noticed that Louis’ hands haven’t stopped shaking since he crossed the living room and flopped down on the couch. 

“I think I’m gonna get a shower,” he says, stretching out, his back popping in the obscene way that used to make Louis gag. Now he feels like he could cry with it. What the fuck is happening? 

“Okay,” he answers dazedly, watching Harry move down the hall. The click of the door has him scrambling for his phone, scrolling through his contacts until he hits the person he wants. 

“I think you should come over,” he says when Niall answers, not bothering with a greeting. No time for a greeting, not now. Niall needs to see this. He needs to see so Louis knows he’s not gone mad. 

Niall sounds wary when he asks what the matter is. 

“I think you should just come over,” Louis repeats. The shower turns off and Louis hangs up the phone, setting it on the coffee table as Harry re-emerges. 

Louis can only stare at him as he wanders in, a hand clasping the towel closed around his waist, his hair still wet and making him look much, much younger than usual. It’s like being in a dream, almost, seeing him here and walking and _breathing_ and eating a fucking apple out of the fruit bowl on the counter. Louis doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

Harry takes a bite of the apple and quirks an eyebrow at him. “Are you alright?” 

It takes longer than it should for Louis to realize he’s speaking him him. “Oh, um, yeah. Weird day,” he says, clearing his throat. “Long day.” 

“Yeah, you look tired,” Harry says, nodding, like that’s a perfectly good explanation and Louis’ not actually just six years older than he was the last time Harry saw him. “You want me to leave so you can get some sleep?” 

“No!” Louis blinks, shocked by the volume of his own voice. “No, I mean. I like when you stay, you know that.” 

Harry grins, takes another bite of his apple. Louis swallows around a lump, trying to think of something to say, anything, when there’s a knock on the door. 

“Did you order something?” Harry asks, as Louis makes his way over to it. “I’m starving.” 

“Um, no, sorry.” Louis opens the door to a tired-looking Niall. “Listen,” he says, as quietly as he can manage. “There’s something —” 

“Louis, who’s there?” Harry asks from the kitchen, and Niall goes from half-dead on his feet to comically alert. 

“Is that —” he asks, and Louis nods. Niall pushes the door open, moving Louis out of the way, and looks into the kitchen. 

“Fucking Christ,” he says, and Louis can’t help but agree. 

— 

The biggest issue with it is, of course, the fact that Harry’s been dead for six years and Louis has never gotten over him. They were best friends in school, went to uni together, and hell, Harry was still in uni when he had his accident, and Louis had just graduated and it was really just a big mess. A huge mess, made worse by the fact that Louis, only a few days before Harry died, had come to realize that he sort of was completely in love with him. 

Talk about needing closure, right? 

So, Louis’ been heartbroken for six years, trying (unsuccessfully) to date and move on and live his fucking life, and Harry just waltzes back in like he didn’t fuck everything up the first time around. 

Okay, so he didn’t fuck it up, but Louis sort of did, by never telling him how he felt, and now Louis is just. God. He doesn’t even know. Relieved? Angry? Elated? All of them, really, and he feels like he might throw up at any given second and he can’t stop fucking looking at Harry, because if he does he might disappear again. 

“You’re both acting really weird,” Harry says slowly, glancing back and forth between Louis and Niall, who, to be fair, have been standing and staring at him for a good amount of time. “I think I’m going to bed.” 

“Okay,” Louis says, running a hand through his hair. Harry’s going to be in his bed. Sleeping, in his bed, just like he used to. Oh fucking christ. “Everything’s, um. You know where everything is. Clothes, blankets, you know.” 

Harry nods slowly, puts his hand up in a wave and slinks back down the hallway to the bedroom. 

“That was,” Niall says, pointing at the space Harry just vacated. 

“Yep.” 

“He was — ” 

“Yep.” 

“Lou.” Niall turns to look at him. “He _died_.” 

Louis swallows, looks down the empty hallway and back to Niall. “I know.” 

— 

He half expects Harry to be gone when he walks into his room some hours later. It wouldn’t be surprising if Harry just vanished and Louis got into bed and woke up the next morning alone. He could say it was a dream and move on, maybe. 

But Harry is there, sprawled over most of the bed, his face smushed into the pillow and the covers halfway down his back. His skin looks silver in the moonlight, makes him look like the ghost he is and makes Louis itch with the need to touch him. 

He takes a deep breath and slips into bed, heart fluttering as Harry grumbles and twists until he’s nuzzled against Louis’ side. He’s so warm, warm as he always was, and Louis squeezes his eyes shut against the tears that have welled up. 

He falls asleep with an arm wrapped around him, holding him securely, so he can’t leave again. 

— 

Louis has the dream. 

He has it a few times every month. He’ll wake up, sun streaming down his back, making him extra warm under the covers, wrapped around Harry’s solid body. He looks up, heart clenching when Harry smiles down at him with sleep swollen eyes, little glimpses of green peeking through his lashes. He’ll ask for a cup of tea in a raspy voice and Louis will smile, pinch his side and call him lazy and get out of bed anyway. 

And then he’ll wake up. 

“Lou,” Harry says, in that same raspy raspy morning voice. “Let go, yeah? I have to piss.” 

Louis blinks his eyes open, withdrawing his arm quickly from around Harry’s waist. Because Harry’s here. Alive. Oh god. Louis’ stomach lurches and he sits up in bed, rubbing his hands over his face as Harry clambers out of bed. 

“You alright?” Harry asks, “You’re acting kind of weird.” 

How is Louis supposed to answer that? He can’t let Harry go on thinking it’s six years ago and nothing’s changed. He’ll have to know. He’ll figure it out eventually. He’s slipped into the bathroom before Louis can answer, though, so Louis gets out of bed himself, works on putting one foot in front of the other, just like every other morning. 

Harry comes out a few minutes later, stretching up onto his toes and then bending at the waist to touch the floor. Louis tries not to watch the muscles in his back flex, but it’s so hard. He just keeps remembering what Harry had looked like in the casket, pale and lifeless. Everyone else said he’d looked peaceful, like he was sleeping, but it hadn’t been what Harry looked like when he was sleeping. It’d looked wrong, unnatural. 

“Won’t you be late for work?” he asks Louis, raising an eyebrow. 

Louis frowns. “I work later. Night shift.” 

“Oh. When did that change?” 

Oh, right. Harry thinks he still works at the radio station, where he’d been a runner for six months before Harry died. He’d lost that job pretty quickly after. 

“I need to —” 

“Who’s this?” Harry asks suddenly, frowning, focusing on something over Louis’ shoulder. He walks around him, picking up the photo of Freddie that Louis keeps by his side of the bed. “A cousin? They look just like you.” 

“Harry, sit down,” Louis says, grabbing his arm, but Harry pulls away, frowning furiously down at the photo. 

“Who is this?” he asks again, urgency in his tone. “Why are you working nights now?” 

“Harry,” Louis says again, quietly. “Sit down.” 

Harry sits. Louis takes a deep breath. 

— 

Harry doesn’t take it well. He tells Louis he’s an asshole, that he’s taken it too far this time, that his jokes aren’t funny and he should be ashamed of himself. Louis doesn’t know what to say so he lets him walk out, lets him bundle himself back up and stalk out of the flat, even though the thought of Harry being out of his sight for even five minutes is enough to make his skin crawl. 

_What if he doesn’t come back? Again?_

It’s not that Louis expected Harry to take it well, really, because how could you expect that of someone? You died six years ago, I have a son, everything you used to know has changed. Louis wouldn’t be able to handle it. Honestly, Louis _can’t_ handle it. He wants to curl up in a ball and cry, but he can’t. He has to be strong for Harry. 

He comes back half an hour after he’s stormed out, his cheeks pink from the cold and his eyes wild. 

“They closed the shop two blocks over, with the bakery in it. Now it’s just a book shop.” 

Louis nods, his throat tight. Harry had worked there part time before starting university. He’d known the owner a long time. 

“They said the owner — They said Barbara died three years ago, that her family sold it,” Harry says, his face crumpling. “They said — ”

“Come here,” Louis interrupts, holding his arms out from where he’s sat on the couch. Harry crosses without a word, fitting himself onto the couch and Louis’ lap, face buried in his neck and shoulders shaking. Louis holds him, letting him cry and clinging a bit himself. 

Harry’s here, he’s alive. He’s alive. 

— 

Louis has to call Anne and Gemma because Harry’s beside himself with worry about them. 

“They’re going to think I’m being awful,” Louis says, rubbing his hands over his face. “They’ll think I’m playing a trick, Harry.” 

“I can’t just show up,” Harry responds. His eyes are still red, slightly puffing from the crying jag earlier. “I mean, I don’t want to give them heart attacks.” 

Louis very carefully doesn’t mention that he’d nearly had a heart attack, because he figures it’s mostly semantics. Instead he sighs and picks up his phone, scrolling through to Anne’s number. 

The line rings, but she doesn’t pick up. Louis sighs. 

“Hey Anne. I know it’s been a bit, and I’m sorry but I just — Have some news. This is going to sound — This isn’t a joke, okay, and I’m sorry and I know you won’t believe me but please just — Harry’s back. He’s um. He came back.” Louis’ voice breaks, and he clears his throat. “I don’t — We’re coming up tonight. I just — Please don’t be mad. Please believe me. Bye.” 

He ends the call and doesn’t look at Harry, but can feel him staring. He stands, rubbing a hand over his face again. 

“Gonna go pack, I guess,” he says, heading toward the bedroom. Harry catches his arm, wraps him up in a hug. 

“Thank you,” he whispers. “I know this is hard for you. Thank you.” 

_It was harder losing you_ , he wants to say. “Sure,” is what he says instead, carefully detangling himself and barricading himself in the bedroom. 

— 

A knock on the front door comes an hour or so later, followed quickly by a knock on the bedroom door. 

“Come in,” Louis calls. He’s sitting in the middle of his bed, surrounded by clothes and an open bag. A pretense of packing, in case Harry comes in. He doesn’t know how he’d explain that he’s just been staring at his wall the whole time, trying not to think about anything. 

It’s Niall who walks in, holding a folder full of papers and looking flushed. 

Louis eyes him wearily. “Alright?” 

“Tommo, listen, I think this is bad,” Niall says in a rush, “The whole Harry thing. Like, coming back or whatever. Not good.” 

A stone drops into Louis’ stomach. “Yeah?” Of course it’s too good to be true. “Why’s that?” 

“There’s been — reports. Stuff about people coming back from the dead forever. For centuries.” 

“I don’t think Harry’s Jesus, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Louis says dryly, trying to stay calm. Niall’s acting twitchy, the flush not going away and his tone urgent. 

“No, fuck Louis, no. I mean — ” Niall takes a deep breath, hands over the folder. “Reports of people coming back all over the world. Canada, the States, South America. All these places have records of people coming back right before they got wiped off the map.” 

Louis stares at him. “Niall,” he says gently, “I know this is a shock, and I know it’s hard, but nothing bad is going to happen.” 

“Louis — ”

“No, Niall. I don’t want to hear it,” Louis says, putting an edge in his voice. “I don’t care, alright? If the fucking world ends tomorrow, fine, whatever. At least he’ll have come back, okay? At least — ” He shakes his head, taking a deep breath. 

“We’re going to his mum’s. Gone for a few days.” 

Niall nods, not saying anything. He looks sad, a furrow in his brow and a turn to his mouth that Louis can relate to. 

“It’s not going to be the same, you know,” he says quietly. 

“Yeah,” Louis answers, feeling hollow. “I know.” 

— 

They take the train, because Louis hasn’t driven a car in six years and Harry’s Mercedes is long gone. He lets Harry have the window seat, so he doesn’t get overwhelmed by all the people, but it’s late enough that most everyone’s dozing or keeping to themselves, so it’s a moot point anyway. 

It’s only a couple of hours but it feels like forever, each passing station making the knot in Louis’ stomach twist tighter and tighter. Anne’ll never believe him. She probably won’t even let them in the house. Louis wouldn’t, if he hadn’t seen Harry with his own eyes. If Harry weren’t right next to him, switching his gaze between the window and the interior of the car. 

“You alright?” Harry asks eventually, when Louis’ turned down the tea cart for a second time. “You always want tea.” 

Louis laughs, rubs his palms over his thighs. “Yeah, fine,” he says, even though he feels wound so tightly that he might vanish in on himself. “You alright?” 

“M’nervous,” Harry mumbles, turning his body so he’s leaning against Louis. The contact eases something a bit, makes Louis feel a little better. 

“Your mum loves you. She’ll be so happy to see you,” Louis says quietly, closing his eyes. Anne had been devastated when he died. Louis hasn’t managed to wipe the look on her face at the funeral from his memory. 

“Yeah,” Harry says on a sigh. “I know. But I — I feel bad. For leaving.” 

Louis frowns. “It wasn’t your fault, Haz. Your car was ancient. It was an accident.” At least, that’s what everyone assumed. Police and all. 

Harry’s mouth goes thin. “Yeah,” he says, “Still.” 

Louis wraps an arm around him, pulling him close. “Trust me,” he says, “She’ll be ecstatic.” 

Harry hums, tapping Louis’ knee. “Were you? Ecstatic.” 

“Scared the shit out of me, if I’m honest,” Louis says, because he deserves honesty. Or as much honesty as Louis can give him. “But yeah. I’m pretty fucking glad you’re back.” 

Harry looks up at him like he might say something, but the train slows down, jarring them slightly in their seats. Harry frowns and glances out the window. 

“We’re here,” he says, and Louis lets him go. 

— 

Anne looks absolutely murderous when she opens the door. She and Harry have such similar faces that it’s funny most of the time, and usually Louis would laugh at the way her brow’s furrowed in the same pattern that Harry’s does. The turn of her mouth is so familiar, though the lines are deeper. 

“Listen,” Louis says, holding up his hands. “I know you’re mad —” 

Anne doesn’t let him finish. “Why would you _do_ such a thing, Louis? Why would you — ”

“Mum.” 

Harry steps up into the glow of the porch light and Anne freezes. Louis steps to the side as Harry moves forward until he’s right in front of her. Anne stares. 

“Mum,” Harry says again, his voice breaking. Anne reaches out, her hand shaking as she brings her fingertips to Harry’s cheek, and then cup it. Harry’s eyes close as he leans into the contact and something breaks in Louis’ chest, emotion flooding through him, making tears well up in his eyes. 

“I’ll just leave you two to it, then,” he says quietly, stepping off the porch. Harry turns and frowns at him, Louis shakes his head. “Just be down at the pub. Call me when you’re through.” 

And with a wave, he turns his back, making his way down the road alone. 

— 

Louis doesn’t mean to get drunk and he doesn’t, all told. He just gets a bit tipsy, what with how he’s had his two pints before the food he ordered gets delivered to him. Once he’s done with it though, most of the haze has worn off, leaving a bone-deep exhaustion. 

Harry fetches him while he’s leaning heavily on the table, eyes drooping and so out of it that he thinks it’s a dream, at first. 

Harry slides into the seat next to him, nudging him. “Hey, you alright to get back?” 

Louis blinks a couple of times and turns to look at him. His eyes are a bit puffy like they get when he’s been crying, and his cheeks are flushed from the brisk outside air. He’s still the most beautiful thing Louis has ever seen. 

“Yeah,” he says, voice hoarse. “I’m good.” 

The walk to Harry’s mum’s house is silent and freezing, the air shocking the rest of Louis’ haze away and some of the exhaustion. Their elbows knock together as they walk, their hands stuffed in their pockets against the cold. Louis hadn’t thought to pack gloves, and neither did Harry, apparently. The warmth of the house is welcome, easing some of the tension out of Louis’ shoulders as he slips off his coat. 

They make their way up the stairs to Harry’s bedroom, still untouched from before. Louis had never thought anything of it, knowing that Anne hadn’t changed his stuff because Louis had done the same, unable to change anything for fear of moving on. Of forgetting. But it must be weird for Harry to be in here, knowing how long it’s been. It’s one thing not to move on, but it’s another to have to admit it. 

Harry sits on the edge of his bed, peeling off his jeans carefully as Louis does the same by the closed door. Louis wants nothing more than to crawl into the bed and sleep, but Harry’s sitting there still, rubbing a hand over his mouth. He wants to talk about something. Louis wants to sleep. 

“Mum thinks I should stay here,” Harry says, and Louis’ stomach lurches into his throat. 

“What?” It comes out as a croak.

Harry doesn’t look at him. “I don’t really have a place anymore, and I can’t just stay with you forever — ” 

“Why not?” Louis doesn’t mean to sound as petulant as he does, but he can’t help it. “I only just got you back. I mean. I don’t mind if you stay a bit.” 

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t know. I feel like I should — Everything’s so different, you know?” 

Louis laughs, incredulous. “Yeah, I know. I still want you to stay with me.” 

“My mum hasn’t seen me in six years,” Harry says, his voice breaking. “I mean — I dunno, Louis. That doesn’t seem fair.” 

Louis’ chest goes tight. “I haven’t seen you in six years,” he grinds out, stepping into the room. This isn’t good. Harry can’t stay here. He can’t not be with Louis. Why would he come back if not to be with Louis? It doesn’t make sense. “How is that fair?” 

Harry looks at him, mouth and brow tense. “You’re not being fair.” 

“None of this is fair!” Louis throws his hands out, then runs them through his hair. “You fucking died, Harry. I love you and you died, and your mum loves you and you died and now you’re not dead and I’m not trying to make you choose, but this — I can’t be without you again, Harry. I can’t be alone. Not again.” 

Harry grabs Louis’ arm, pulling him so he’s standing right in front of him. “Hey,” Harry says softly, his other hand cupping the back of Louis’ head. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” 

_That’s not true_ , Louis thinks, and shakes his head. “You’ll die again,” he says, trying to get away, but Harry holds him tighter. “Everybody dies.” 

“Yeah, sure,” Harry says, gently pulling Louis closer and closer until Louis clambers into his lap for lack of any other choice. Harry takes Louis’ hand and puts it on his chest, right over his heart. Louis can feel the thump of Harry’s heart under his hand, faint but steady. It settles something in Louis even as it makes his stomach twist. 

“Harry,” he says, unsure of how to finish.

Harry cups the back of his head. “I’m not going anywhere, Louis. Alright? This is — I got a second chance, and I’m not going anywhere.” 

A second chance. Louis has a second chance too, he knows, to tell Harry how he feels. To fix what he fucked up before Harry died. Louis leans in slowly, giving Harry more than enough time to pull away, but he doesn’t. His hand tightens around the back of Louis’ neck and when Louis kisses him, he exhales sharply through his nose but doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t do anything except kiss back. 

Louis should tell him right now, tell him he loves him, that he’s _in_ love with him. He could do it. He _should_ do it. 

“I missed you,” he says instead, resting his forehead against Harry’s, hand still on his chest over the drum of his heart. 

“Yeah,” Harry says, sounding like it hurts to speak. “I know.” 

Louis kisses him again, harder, his hand sliding up and around Harry’s neck, fingers tangling in his curls. Harry inhales sharply again and freezes for a moment, long enough that Louis starts to pull away, an apology on his lips, but Harry’s hand tightens again and he gives into it, pulling Louis down into another kiss. 

It’s frantic, more desperate than Louis expected and he knows he should stop and they should talk about this, but it feels so good to be kissing Harry after all this time. It feels so good to have him there, solid underneath Louis’ hands, his lips soft against Louis’. He groans when Harry gets a hand on his bum and pulls him onto his lap, arousal heavy and tight between his legs as Harry manhandles him. He gets his hands under Harry’s shirt and lifts it off, tossing it to the side and going in for another kiss. 

“Hey.” Harry stops him, a hand to his chin. “Look at me.” 

Louis meets Harry’s gaze, breath shaky. Harry’s looking up at him the same as he always has, and Louis thinks, _I’m so fucking in love with you_. 

“I missed you,” he says again, and something dims in Harry’s eyes. 

“Yeah,” he says, and kisses him again. 

— 

Louis makes his way to the train station the next morning alone, slipping out of bed when the early morning light’s shining through Harry’s window. He bundles himself up and calls a car to fetch him, making his way down the stairs in bare feet, stolen socks balled up in his hand. 

Anne’s in the kitchen when he turns the corner, standing over the island, reading the paper and nursing a mug of tea. It’s so familiar, reminds Louis of mornings at home with his own mum, waking up before any of his siblings and sitting in the kitchen with her in comfortable silence. He misses it fiercely for a moment but pushes it away, side-stepping the kitchen and going into the front hall to get his socks and boots on. 

 

His car comes a few minutes later, and he slips out the front door, only looking back once the car’s pulling forward. 

 

There’s a silhouette in Harry’s window, someone standing and watching, catching the corner of Louis’ eye but they’re gone when Louis goes for a better look. 

 

— 

 

Life, as Louis has come to realize these past six years, continues on. 

He has a shift the night he gets back to his flat, so he changes his clothes and goes, pushing the thought of Harry from his mind. Knowing Harry’s out there alive helps surprisingly little; in fact it makes him even more anxious to know he’s there and not be able to see him. Louis can’t control what happens to him, can’t control whether he lives or dies. What if he dies again? Louis isn’t sure he can handle that. 

Work passes as it usually does. He makes drinks for people, smiles at the attractive ones and cuts off the ones who go a little too far. His regulars ask why he’s been gone the past few days and he tells them he’d had a friend in town and it satisfies them, and they don’t ask again. Louis doesn’t offer anything else, and tries his hardest not to think about it. 

He goes home at the end of his shift and climbs immediately into bed, squeezing his eyes shut and forcing the thoughts out until his mind is blank and he sleeps. 

He wakes to an empty bed every day for a week. 

It’s definitely worse, knowing Harry’s with his mum and not with Louis; knowing that he had a chance to tell him everything and didn’t; knowing Harry might never come back, and not because he’s died. That’s the worst of it, probably. The fact that Harry could just choose to stay at home, choose to remake his life somewhere else that doesn’t include Louis. 

Fuck. Louis should have told him. He’d tell him now, if he came back. He’d shout it from the rooftops if it meant Harry would stay and be there and not leave. If it meant Harry in his bed. 

But it doesn’t, is the thing. It’s not for sure and as much as Louis wants to believe that Harry loved him, _loves_ him the same way as Louis, he just isn’t sure. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if he could handle telling him and being rejected. He couldn’t forgive himself for ruining their friendship. 

He doesn’t know if he can forgive himself for never telling him, either. 

So, Louis does what he’s done for the past six years and doesn’t think about it. He goes to work, comes home, tries to eat as much as he can so he doesn’t wither away, tries to avoid the drink, tries to move on. 

It didn’t work then and it doesn’t really work now. 

— 

“Mate, you look rough.” 

Niall sounds grim from where he sits across from Louis at the pub. It’s been a week and a half, almost two weeks since Harry went home and Louis’ not heard much. He’s not spoken to him on the phone and he doesn’t know how it’s going and fuck, he isn’t even really sure if Harry coming back was real at all. Maybe he’s finally fucking lost it. Maybe he had a mental break and none of it really happened and Harry’s dead. Maybe — 

“Louis, hey, you there?” 

Louis blinks, focusing in on Niall again. He knows what he looks like. Bags under his eyes, Lines in his face more pronounced. Tired. Grieving. God, he’s a wreck. 

“M’here,” he says, mumbling like he’s drunk even though he’s barely through his first pint. “Tired, mostly.” 

Niall purses his lips like he does when he feels sorry for someone. Louis doesn’t roll his eyes, but only because he’s too fucking exhausted. 

“Still no word from Harry?” 

Louis shakes his head. “None. Not surprised though. He always loved spending time with his mum. Loves? Loved. Whatever.” 

“Yeah,” Niall says faintly, chewing on the cuticle of his ring finger. The cuticles on the rest of his hand are all bitten red as well. Niall’s been worried about something. 

“Did you ever find more out about that shit you were saying earlier?” Louis asks, waving a hand. “The disappearances, or whatever. Reappearances.” 

Niall shrugs, shakes his head. “Dunno. Guess some of them were hoaxes.” He pauses, clears his throat before looking around and leaning forward to speak quietly. “Spoke to some professors at the university about it. None of them took it seriously.” 

“Huh.” Louis makes a face. “Not surprising. Sounded like a load of shit.” 

Niall shrugs again and leans back in his chair. He doesn’t say anything else, and Louis gets the impression that he’s keeping something from him. Deliberately not expanding. In all honesty, Louis’ too tired to give a shit. 

“Think I’m gonna head out,” Louis says, rifling through his wallet for a tenner. He slaps it on the table and waves off Niall’s attempts to walk him home. 

“I’ll be fine,” he says, and steps out into the cold night.

— 

Harry’s sitting on the couch when Louis gets home. 

Louis’ so tired that he pauses in the doorway, staring for a moment, blinking a few times. He’s had this dream too, is the thing. He might be dreaming. 

“I’m real,” Harry says after a moment, and Louis’ heart jumps into his throat. 

“Sounds exactly like something dream-you would say,” he replies, but Harry doesn’t laugh like Louis expects. He frowns, face going worried. 

“Did you dream about me a lot?” 

Dread curls in Louis’ stomach. He’s too tired for this conversation. His heart’s racing too fast for him to think clearly. “Suppose so,” he says as lightly as he can manage, putting his things down. “You done at your mum’s?” 

“Yeah,” Harry says faintly, still looking at Louis like he’s trying to figure him out. “My mum said some things to me. About you.” 

Louis scratches the back of his head, fakes a laugh. “All good, I hope.” He knows it’s not. Anne doesn’t know the worst of it, but she knows enough. His steady decline in both mental and physical health after Harry’s funeral, losing his job at the station, sleeping his way through the girls at his favorite pub, having a son. Louis’ really only just started to get his life back on track in the past year or so. Typical that Harry came back to fuck it all up again. 

“She said you took it hard,” Harry says. “Had a pretty difficult time. Afterward.” 

“You’re my best friend, Harry,” he says, helpless. “Of course I did.” 

“She said she thinks you were in love with me,” he plows on, not acknowledging Louis’ comment. “But I told her that’s ridiculous. It’s ridiculous, right?” 

Louis swallows, his throat tight. This is it. This is his chance to say it, but the pinched look on Harry’s face isn’t encouraging. He looks upset. Betrayed, almost. Louis doesn’t answer. 

“Louis.” Harry’s voice has gone deeper, rough. “It’s not true, is it? You would’ve told me. Before. You would’ve told me if you loved me.” 

“I do love you,” Louis says, taking a deep breath. “You know that.” 

Harry’s hands clench into fists. Annoyed, then. “You know what I mean. Don’t do this. Just fucking be honest, for once.” 

Rage swells up in Louis’ chest like a wave cresting, like it hasn’t in years, not since just after the funeral. He thought he’d gotten over the anger, but now, hands shaking, he realizes maybe he was wrong. 

“Fuck you,” he spits, his own hands clenching into fists. “I was always honest. I still am.” 

“Except for the part where you’re in love with me and didn’t tell me,” Harry spits back, standing. He always looks so tall when he’s angry, particularly tall in a way that he doesn’t usually. It’s intimidating sometimes, but right now it just makes Louis angrier. 

“It’s not like I had a lot of time to fucking process it,” he shouts, throwing his hands up. “I figure out I’m in love with you and you’re dead a week later. Tell me, when should I have worked that in?” 

“That’s not fair,” Harry says, but his voice has lost the angry edge. “I deserved to know. Deserve. You don’t — You should have told me.” 

Louis groans. “I barely even fucking knew it myself,” he says. “I didn’t want — I wanted to be sure, alright? I didn’t want to risk it for nothing. You were — You are too important to me. It wasn’t — It had to be worth it.” 

Harry takes a step closer, reaching out to touch Louis’ jaw gently. His voice shakes when he speaks, barely. “Is it worth it now?” 

Louis steps in, leans his face into Harry’s hand. “Depends,” he says softly, pulse still racing from the adrenaline of yelling. The adrenaline from Harry being so close to him, touching him. Being so close he can almost taste him. 

“On what?” Harry asks, matching Louis’ volume. 

Louis looks up at him, taking a deep breath. “On your answer.” 

Harry’s smile is slow, stretching across his face. He doesn’t say anything, just leans down and kisses Louis slow and sweet, tasting like honey and mint and tea. Better than Louis ever imagined. 

“That good enough for you?” he asks, nudging their noses together. 

“Yeah,” Louis says, nodding slightly. “Suppose it is.” 

—

**Author's Note:**

> I'm here if you need me.


End file.
